Phantom
by Blue Eyes Smiling
Summary: Ever fantasize about a fictional character? This Theatre Critique sure knows that feeling when it comes to The Phantom of the Opera!
1. Phantasy Problems nah!

Author's Note:

Let's just say this is my first fanfic and also me admitting that I'm willing to write it and get discovered by my friends.  
They like to hold things against me and so on.

On another side note, I own none of Leroux's characters or anything contributed to Webber.  
Last time I checked I was still struggling to pay College loans. *heh*

(If you like you may give me feed-back. I really need it. ...PLEASE!)

* * *

"Can I-" his voice quivered a second.

My eyes fluttered open, gazing up at him in the dark. I still can't see his face. Slowly sitting up, hands reach out to caress his chest. I feel his muscles tremble under my touch. Inclining my head forward, trailing kisses everywhere. Finally found what I was looking for. Slowly and carefully, I lick the tip of a peach-colored nipple. He gasps lightly, his hands grip my hips. I smile against his skin and lick him again. A groan this time, his hands trail up my sides until his thumbs just come up under my breasts.

Hands cupping my breasts, messaging them roughly. I arch into him, craving more of his touch. His thumbs tweak the perk nipples, I gasp and lean into his ministrations. My hands slide down his body, leaving lingering touches until I find his hard arousal resting against my stomach. Gently stroking it, coaxing a hiss of breath from him. For a moment he has stopped, then started back up just as quickly.

"You can do whatever you want," I whisper in his ear. I nibble on the lobe and search out his mouth. My hands still stroking him.

His lips find me first, crashing down on me so fast, the very breath in my lungs escape. It is gentle at first then grows in its' passion and urgency. His tongue slips in after a gasp and nimble fingers stroke my bub ever so gently. My hands have abandoned their task to wrap around his neck for support. Finally, he pulls away, leaving me panting for air and guessing where he is going next.

"Erik?" I moan his name as his kisses travel over my skin.

My nails scrape his scalp as I drag my fingers through his hair. They get snag on a velvet ribbon at the crown of Erik's head. I suddenly remember the Masquerade ball, and the abandoned room in the Opera house. The people who are looking for me, the guest of honor, who slipped away into the shadows with a handsome stranger. But Erik was hardly a stranger. All thoughts escape me when a warm mouth sucks up a nipple.

"Nnh. Oh, Erik," I mewl, "please..take me. Please!"

He continues to suckle on me, but removes his fingers, positioning himself in front of my entrance. He quickly thrusts inside and steadies himself, waiting for me to adjust. I bump my hips forward. He takes the hint.

The pace is slow and hard, gradually growing in speed with each thrust. My nails bite moon-scars into his shoulders as I ride the painful-pleasure. By now, Erik has moved to the other breast. My nipples have grown raw.

"J'ai besoin de vos lèvres maintenant,Erik!"

I feel his mouth crash down on mine again. I push into the sensation, wanting more of it. Wanting more of him. Again we break apart, both gasping for precious air. I can feel myself coming closer and closer to the edge. Ready to release at his command.

But something odd happens.

I hear an out of place *chirp-upping* noise. It grows louder and louder, until it is all I can hear. My eyes jar open and I see the plain white walls of my apartment-living room, not the pitch room with heavy velvet curtains and divan. I blink furiously to focus my watering eyes to the sunlight peeking in. Something slips from my hands and *flops* to the floor. The *chirp* is still persistent. I glance sideways at the coffee table in front of the couch and spy my cell phone. The culprit to the annoyance and ruined dream.

Groping for the phone I barely looked at the caller-ID, "Hello?"

"Do you know what time it is?" came an equally annoying voice.

"No, why? Did someone die, Mary?" I clip back.

Why did my ex-fiance's sister have to be my boss and why does she still blame me for her brother running off and away from our wedding? Not like I wanted to marry him in the first place, it was a business marriage. Steven was lucky, he gets to run away and not have to deal with the blame. Lucky bugger.

"You are supposed to be at work-"

"Wait, no I'm not! I checked last night. Today is my day off."

"Well, there was a last minute change, you should have called in to check again."

"You are such a bad liar, Mary," my anger boiling over, "You know, if you hate me so much, why don't you get the old man to fire me," I spat back.

Her silence seethes with anger. I know she has tried and failed. Her father is the only one who doesn't blame me. The only one who likes my writing enough to keep me on the paper.

I wait for her response. I could almost hear her thoughts through the phone.

"Well," she said flippantly, "I've just _**rechecked**_ and it seems I was wrong. But your theatre review from last Tuesday is still due. I suggest you do it now and have it in when you come to work tomorrow."

Before I can even utter a response, she slams down the phone. I toss my cell onto the coffee table, taming my need to have the last word when it came to dealing with Mary. But my mind is else-where now. This just from the mention of my weekly Theatre reviews. I mostly started this job since I couldn't make it as an singer/actress of the stage.

Yes, a little pathetic for a twenty-nine year old single woman living alone and hasn't been laid since 2005 or had a date with a real, breathing _**man**_.

"And yet you still prefer men in books over the real-ma-coy," I say a loud to the walls.

I escape into stories and make myself into the main female-role. (Only I don't make the same mistakes as the original, have actual intelligence that is visible and shag the guy till the _**'cows-come-home'**_.) This makes me sound even more pathetic!

Sitting upright on the couch, I kick something on the floor. I pick up my battered copy of Gaston Leroux's _'__**Phantom of the Opera**__'_. The whole reason I had that naughty dream and the fact that it relates back to my job. My Tuesday night was spent watching the Andrew Lloyd Webber version of the story. Yeah know, good hunks of the story missing and things poetically added within licensing rights. He must have thought people were too stupid to then again, some are-

It had been a night well spent, but then again the only casted characters they got right were the _Phantom_ and _Madam Giry_. And did they **NAIL **the _Phantom! _It was like looking at 'the' real _Phantom. _His stature and his mannerisms and his emotion and, of course, his VOICE!

I had wanted so badly to meet this man, to thank him for saving the play from a most horrible and embarrassing critique. His words still buzzed about my head like a trapped bee. His songs were the reason I dug out the battered book I stole from my twelfth-grade English teacher from a dusty box in the spare room. He is the reason I bed with Erik in Christine Daae's stead. The reason I wanted to touch the stage in the first place. It was like a never-ending circle of incurable insanity.

I shudder at the thought of having actually worked up the courage to go back stage. But me and crowds never mix. My skin begins to speckle with goose-flesh.

"Knock it off, dork. You're in love with a work of fiction," again berating myself. _But a HOT work of fiction, _I add mentally.

Trying to get my mind off of '_other_' things, I toss the book on the coffee table and get out my laptop. Might as well get the review written up now instead of putting it off until two in the morning. Thank God, Mary woke me up at ten. The only plus side of having an over-baring and over-controlling boss. I waited for the computer to boot-up, all the while going through the whole play from the orchestra tuning up to the final bows of the whole cast.

Within an hour and a half I have my weekly column typed, proof-read and emailed to my editor. Maybe that with abate the fiery tongue I will get tomorrow for my cheek over the phone. But for now I will have to deal with not meeting the _Phantom_ and send the rest of my day sleeping with the one in my head.

I let myself slip back into that comfortable sleep, where you're mind is still aware of things and is slowly embracing unconscious abandonment. Waiting on the other side is _my _Erik.

_Which isn't a bad thing,_ my mind voices, _he's much happier in my head anyways._


	2. Might be a Little Crazy?

Author's Note: As you all well know this is my first fanfic. A feat of greatness in my world. I don't like giving my friends ammunition of torment such as this. They like to hold things against me and tease, but I love them to death! I'm a little surprised that some wanted me to continue with this little one-shot crack baby. But, ah, I give what the people ask of me. So, here is the next chapter. Enjoy!  
(Also am extremely sorry for the slow update, I was without internet service for awhile.)

* * *

I quietly prepared myself for the Hellish lashing I knew was coming my way from Mary this morning. My deeds never did seem to go unpunished. I swear, with all the stress she has given me over to past few years, I wonder why I have yet to pull out the remainder of my hair. She sure knew how to drive me up a wall. If it wasn't for her father, I would have quit a long, long, long time ago. Before the 'Steven' incident could have had the proper time to develop into the never-ending Hell it turned into.

'Also would have decked her in the face by now,' I snorted to myself.

I mindless went through the papers on my desk that had been so '_**carefully**_' placed in my Inbox. To put it in the kindest words, it looked like a dog had gotten ahold of a pack of Uno cards. Puffing out a sigh after finishing, I turned my computer on awaiting the inevitable doom that was surely heading my way any second. I scrolled through countless emails, shooting a few back in response to things sent by my editor, then just trashing the rest of it. It's gonna be one of those days, huh?

My ears twitched in sheer agony as the mail cart pasted behind me. That thing could have WD40 endlessly coating it and would still squeak horrendously. Quickly giving my head a shake, I tried to clear minuet signs of a migraine.

My computer made a '_**poing-ping**_' noise, the sign of new email. I opened a letter addressed from my editor with the corrections he had made to my Theatre review, asking if these were suitable changes and if he could hand it in. I skimmed over the document, noticing that there was hardly anything marked in red.

'I must have done good this time around,' I gleefully noted in my mind, 'hardly anything is changed.'

I sent my reply and leaned back in my desk chair. My mind briefly wondered away to 'la-la-land,' which is where Erik spent most of his time.

_Mmmmmmmmm. . .Erik_, I cooed to myself, _God, I wish you were real. You are on hunk of man I wouldn't mind spending eternity with . . ._

A small snippet of a dream from last night flashed across my mind. I could actually feel the length of silk around my wrists; a swift tug and I tumbled into strong arms. The scent of wax, ink and man assaulted my nose, and a slight undertone of death being masked. Just like the white creation that rested upon his features. A leather clad hand caresses my cheek, a smirk - almost smile - upon his lips.

_"Caught you, my little lark,*" _he pronounced, still holding the silk imprisonment.

_"What are you doing up here Erik?" _flustered, I tried in vain to tug my wrists free, _"you know how I'm being watched after disappearing for so long at the Masquerade. Raoul is expressively attentive and jealous, no matter how many times I tell him to stop pursuing me."_

Erik's eyes darkened for a concise second, his grip tightening causing me to gasp in pain. A brief thought seemed to register in his mind, for his grip slackened, but did not release me.

_"I am sorry. Have I hurt you?"_

_ "No. And even if you did, I can handle being damaged goods."_

He gave a low growl, _"You are no damaged goods." _His other hand played with the curls of my hair.

I gave another sure tug, and my wrists are free. And without even thinking, I tied his wrists with the same silk, forcing him to look at me.

_"And you are not also, yet you refuse to allow me to see you."_

_ "I am standing right in front of you," _ he said with a slight chuckle.

I relinquished a frustrated noise, _"Erik! You will not let me see all of you. Why? You are my teacher and savior! Why do you refuse to let me see past this mask? Do you think I will leave you because of it? You should know me better, in fact you are the only one who does. Why do you hide from me?"_

Thoughts were quickly scattered as a huge rubber-banded wad of mail landed on my desk, flinging papers all over my cubicle. My ears were then assaulted by the squeak of the mail cart. I gave a few chose curses under my breath and began the tedious chore of collecting papers back up and in to their proper places.

Finally, I focused on the wad of mail. '_Fan_'_-_mail as I call it. Or when I wasn't in the office, Bloody-fucker mail. Pulling the band off, I let the envelopes fall to my desk. Some were the usual white letter envelopes, others were legal paper sized and there were a few manilla folders. Starting with the smaller ones, like the OCD person I am, reading every scrap of the mail. I left the Manilla ones to be read at home.

"Dear Feminist Bawd – of this should be a pleasant one," I laughed shortly.

After finishing reading all my mail, putting a few in my desk drawer, my pile of most memorable letters. Before long, I punched out of work and on my way home via bus. I had managed to live through the day without a single encounter with 'Bloody' Mary. Which was a little odd for my boss. Normally she would have been on me like a starved dog on a chicken bone. Dressing me down in front of other coworkers, hoping beyond hope that she could make me quit first. Make me the first to concede to her, so she could gloat in triumph.

This would never happen though, I would never give her the satisfaction that she got to me. This was one person who knew how to put her and her little rich girl attitude in its place.

My thoughts continued to tumble around my head, much like the motions of the bus' jerky stops and accelerations. Rain began to pour down from the Heavens. People of all walks got on and off the bus at different intervals. My stop was the very next one coming up on the route. I slowly made my way to the front of the bus, hanging on to a pole near the front seat. Ever so briefly, I heard the sound of a familiar voice singing . . .

_'Come to me, my Angel of Music.'_

Caught off guard, I didn't notice when the bus jerked to a stop. Pitched forward, I knew I would land face-first to the floor, look like a merry andrew and get off the bus with a little bit of my pride intact. As all this screamed through my head, I prepared for impact. But strong arms caught me.


	3. In Which Life Takes A Turn

Author's Note:  
Let's see. . .this took me awhile to write (mostly during Psychology class). And I had a bit of writer's block and a MacBook Pro PMS-ing on me at the last possible second. Which is why I'm still angry at the people who bought it for me. I appreciate the gesture, but really? I was gonna save up for a computer this summer. I needed a camera for my MAJOR!  
(-_-;)'

geez. . .  
Any-how, enjoy this next part- even though I have no clue where this story is taking me. Crack-baby.

* * *

"Are you alright, Miss?" a voice reached my ears. It must be the owner of the arms that saved me from embarrassment.

"Yes," was I? "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, sir . . . " I glanced up at my savior; I gave a small start.

Before me was a man. No, that doesn't even begin to describe him! It was like looking on the face of an angel. Ivory skinned, flawless and smooth; raven hair was slicked back from his face, but a loose strand dangled at the side of his face. A small smile tugged at his features and amber-gold eyes look at me in concern. I know those eyes! But where have I seen them before? What's going on?

His head inclined in a polite nod and his arms released me. I felt leather brush against my hands as he straightened himself. I looked down and noticed his hands were clothed in dark leather gloves. This just feels so familiar, my mind is scrambling to figure it out and also give m voice coherent thoughts to speak. So far . . . I'm failing miserably!

You know that feeling, when you stand and stare at a person with your mouth hanging open? It is an experience I would never wish upon someone else or to have a repeat of it. I could tell that I was floundering to say something – ANYTHING! He seemed to be amused at my *ahem* predicament. A bright glint of mirth sparked across his features and smoldered in his eyes.

_Oh God, those eyes! _

I felt a shiver tumble down my spine quickly and linger like a trickle of water. A spark settled in my stomach like a coiled snake; ready for the opportunity to unfurl and strike. My mind finally grasped at something intelligent to utter.

Unfortunately, it was not to be borne. The bus stopped again and the driver bellowed out the name. It was my stop, I had to get off.

I quickly muttered a lame, 'thank you' and allowed my body to carry me away from the stranger. My heels met with wet pavement, the rain having let up, but clouds still loomed overhead threateningly. I chanced a glance backwards. I was met with fiercely glowing amber-gold eyes and a knowing smile. The bus drove onwards, taking with it the familiar stranger. My brief knight-in-shining-armor.

I don't remember how, but I find myself in the comforting silence of my apartment. Not asleep and yet not awake either.

Finally, sleep-the sweet temptress it is- claimed me in its calming embrace. My eyes slowly closed, allowing it to overtake my senses, and dreams took the reins of control.

"Why are you so distant," a voice called out from the darkness, "have I done something to offend?"

I didn't answer, staring into the candle before me. Wondering why its flame danced and what it would feel like to blow it out; to have its life snuffed out before it got a chance to truly burn.

I felt the air move behind me, no doubt due to him moving closer to me from his place in the dark behind me. I snapped out of my thoughts, bowing my head in submission as he drew nearer.

"You have done nothing. I'm just being a silly girl again," heaving a sigh and looking at my hands.

I was sitting on the cold stone floor of the small basement chapel. Not a real chapel, really; just a small room with Religious artifacts hanging on the four walls. It was a calming and peaceful place to think, confess and pray. Away from the world. Where I could be with him and not have him risk his safety.

He knelt down beside me, "How are you being silly?" A leather clad hand took hold of mine. I watched him silently as he raised it to his lips, brushing it softly with a chaste kiss.

My thoughts came tumbling back into my head like a rock slide off the face of a mountain.

"Why?" was the single question that pushed past my lips.

Erik lowered my hand, refusing to let go of it, a quizzical expression marring his exposed features. I forcefully yanked my hand away and hug myself closely. My eyes boring holes into the floor beneath me.

"Why, out of all the Opera house, did you pick me to be your pupil? Your prote'ge' ?"

"What on Earth are you babbling about," his brow furrowed, the glow of his eyes spiking.

"What am I to you?" my hands drop to my lap, still refusing to shift my gaze and look at him.

"What?"

My mind continues to do somersaults and backflips. I have to breathe through my nose to keep from screaming at him.

"I was only a chorus girl before you found me, Erik. No chance of being anything. Invisible and a nobody! No prospects of moving on or going anywhere in this Theatre. "

I glance up at him finally. Confused anger etch his face un-characteristicly. Silence cloaks him, almost as if Erik knows I have more to say; which I do.

"What did you see in me that no other saw? Why give talent and help me gain fame? An orphan and unwanted being," my words come out strangled and frustrated. Deep down, they sting my soul; just hearing my doubts and fears voiced.

I feel heat prick the back of my eyes. Tears quick to follow and slide from my eyes, down my cheeks in twin rivers. My vision becomes blurry, I cannot gauge his reaction or response. Head bowed again, I try to stop my tears and prevent sobs from growing in volume.

"Your soul," a gloved hand gently grips my chin, lifting my head to meet his gaze. My sobs have quieted by now, but my vision was still blurred.

"Wah-what?" it was my turn to be confused.

He sat up on his knees, looking down at me. Erik's hands lightly cradle my face.

"Your soul, mon Alouette. I know every aspect of this Opera House. It has been my domain for countless years, now. Mangers and Patrons have come and gone. Understudies rise to the ranks of praise actors and Divas. I have witnessed this building in poverty and wealth. All who enter through my doors have brought with them the cruelty and misunderstanding of Man. Like a second skin; soul-less wandering creatures.

"But I saw no such thing from you. I saw a light, something pure and radiant. I saw how eager you were to please, to learn even from your own mistakes. I saw your want to prove your worth and that you were more than you station as chorus girl. I saw in you a being of kindness and understanding. A creature of Music."

His eyes drop from mine, but they still remain pools of swirling Amber-gold. And right now, they are burning holes in the floor; holding my attention captive. Erik didn't hear me get up. When I next sat down, my knees touched his; I felt his body jerk back from the sudden contact. I catch his face between my hands, titling his face up to look at mine.

My lips barely brush his as I speak,

"Then let me see your light, Erik."

With that, I crush my lips to his and twine my arms around his neck. One hand holds my waist as the other supports my neck. I do not notice his mask slipping off, until there is a soft *clatter*. We pull apart, gasping for air.

Then I wake up to find the utter silence of my apartment with the dull sound of the city outside. I curl up to my pillow and drift back to sleep. But these are now empty and vacant dreams.


	4. Another Day

Author's Note:  
I guess I'm on a roll now!

Throwing out another chapter in no time is really a first for me. I hope you enjoy your reading. Reviews are nice, but so are favorites and alerts!  
(Sorry it is so short this time.)

* * *

My head lolled to the side. Trying my hardest to stay awake during a board meeting was like trying to get a sugar-up five year old to stand in one place for more than two seconds. A feat I have tried with younger cousins, it has proven to be a failure. People in higher positions on the newspaper liked to talk a great deal; about everything to size of obituaries to text type.

Boring and spoken in monotone voices. I keep waiting for one old-geezer to slip up and call out, 'Bueller.' My editor, Jeffery, sitting next to me notices me nodding off. A swift kick to my shin awakens me, and will probably leave a nasty bruise. I visibly wince, gripping my pencil to the point of almost breaking. I shoot him an evil-eye, he just rolls his.

"And that concludes our meeting for the day, you are all dismissed. Keep up the good work people," Mr. MacArthur calls from the door before he makes a hasty exit back to his office.

I part with Jeffery, just handing him a new piece of mine to edit, and proceed back to my cubical of loneliness. I spot a fresh stack of letters and folders awaiting me. At least this time I did not have to suffer the mail-cart! I sift through the pile, pulling out the folders and giving them a quick once over, before shoving them into my briefcase. Most of it was material to research for an up-coming play, better to go into battle knowing the enemy than ill-prepared. I guess this week an amateur production of 'Macbeth' is to be put on for charity.

"Money is to go towards local homeless shelters. Noble cause indeed for such a bloody and cursed play! This should be fun to see," I chuckle to myself and begin opening my 'fan-mail'.

Nothing beat replying back to scorned actors with over-inflated egos. I was a bit surprised to only receive two hate letters out of a usual twenty per day. Seems the entire production was not involved this time. Out of the entire stack, I received three letters of thanks for my review on _The Phantom of the Opera_.

The director was included in the three, thanking me for such a kind review. 'It was his first time putting on a play of such caliber,' his secretary wrote, 'that he was surprised to receive such jubilation for his attempt'.

"And as a special thank you, Mr. Dawson would like to welcome you to be the first to interview the leading cast. . .date and time is up to you. Please at you leisure send a reply back promptly if you wish to do so. Jeffery! Jeffery get over here, now!"

Jeffery scrambled over to me, I quickly read him the letter twice. He looked like he was about to faint. We hurried to MacArthur's office, telling him the offer. Within the hour, we had phoned the 2nd and 3rd Street Theatre to confirm our want of the offer. I two days time, I would standing on their stage, meeting face-to-face their Phantom of the Opera.


End file.
